Best Friends by Ann M. Martin

job, mostly because there were so many people who, like my parents, were out of work. And there were few jobs available, since so many businesses had closed. It was a long time before my father found work at the factory, and it certainly wasn’t the sort of job he’d been seeking. But he was in no position to turn it down.”
    â€œDo you remember the day of the fire?” asked Flora.
    Mary shook her head. “I was only about two years old. But my mother sometimes talked about the day. She would talk about it the way people talk about September eleventh now, because it was the worst tragedy she could remember, and it affected so many people in town. She would start off by saying that the day was beautiful. It was an early summer day, very warm, with a clear blue sky. She always mentioned the clear blue sky, I think because when the fire started burning, the sky became smoky for miles around. Even people in other towns could smell the smoke. As soon as word spread about the fire, the families of the factory workers began gathering to wait for news. My mother joined them, but she left me with a neighbor. She waited outside the factory for hours, then came home and waited some more.”
    Mary stopped talking, so Flora said, because she had heard Mary say this before, “And your father never came home. Right?”
    â€œRight. My mother checked at the hospital, of course, and at hospitals in other towns. But my father wasn’t located, and … he never came home. So my mother and I put together a life for ourselves. We weren’t wealthy, but we didn’t do badly. I think you know the rest of the story, Flora.”
    Flora switched off the recorder. “Yes. Thank you for telling me this part in your own words. When I go home, I’ll write them down.”
    Flora set the recorder on a table, along with her notebook. She looked out the window, looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall, watched Delilah twitch in her sleep. Flora opened her mouth, then closed it. She drew in a breath, tried to speak, but instead reached over to scratch Daphne, who had rolled onto her back and was purring loudly.
    â€œFlora? Is there something you want to say?” asked Mary.
    â€œYes. But I don’t know how to say it.” Flora retrieved her notebook and turned to the pages on which she’d taken notes when she interviewed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I have to tell you something,” she said at last.
    â€œAll right,” said Mary gently.
    â€œWhen I talked to Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Flora began, “she said something … I really don’t know how to say this.”
    â€œPlease. Just tell me what she said.”
    â€œShe said that her mother had a friend. Isabelle. Does that name sound familiar?” Mary shook her head. “She said Isabelle was your father’s sister.”
    Mary frowned. “That would make her my aunt. But I didn’t think I had any relatives, apart from my mother.”
    â€œAnd she said,” Flora continued, “that after the fire, Isabelle was never the same.”
    â€œWhat did she mean?”
    â€œI’m not sure, but then Mrs. Fitzpatrick told me that her mother used to say …” Flora stopped again. “This is the hard part. She said her mother used to say that if someone wanted to leave his life behind and start over, like with a new identity, the fire would have been a good way to do that.”
    Flora looked anxiously at Mary, searching for signs that she had upset her friend. She saw instead that Mary’s lined face had softened.
    â€œAh,” said Mary. “I understand.”
    â€œYou do?”
    Mary stood and crossed the room to a littered desk. “I have something to show you.” She ignored the papers spilling off the surface of the desk and opened a drawer. She withdrew a sheet of blue stationery. “I found this several months ago,” she said, “with some of my mother’s